


The Way to a Poet's Heart

by enigmaticblue



Series: When It Don't Come Easy [2]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-26 10:10:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1684556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigmaticblue/pseuds/enigmaticblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set shortly after The Lonely Hearts Club. Tara drags Spike along with her on a school assignment, and learns something about him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Way to a Poet's Heart

You would have thought that Tara had asked Spike to kill his favorite puppy or something. Spike’s expression was so miserable that she was ready to tell him to go home. “You don’t have to come, Spike.”

 

“Sure I do,” he responded, still sounding glum, but stubborn. Tara knew that tone of voice. You couldn’t get Spike to do anything when he sounded like that. “You shouldn’t be out on your own after dark, not in that part of town.”

 

“It’s really not that bad, Spike,” she protested. “I’ve been there before.”

 

“And you’re bloody lucky something didn’t grab you,” Spike replied, sounding heated. “I’m going.”

 

Tara shrugged and turned to lock up her small apartment. “If that’s what you want.”

 

“Didn’t say that,” Spike muttered, mostly to himself.

 

“What is it about poetry that bothers you so much?” Tara asked.

 

She’d told him about the assignment a week before. It hadn’t been the first time that her teacher had requested that they attend a poetry reading. In fact, they were supposed to go to at least four times before the end of the semester. Tara had chosen Writing Poetry because it both fit into her schedule and sounded like it might be interesting. The only problem, as far as Spike was concerned, was that the poetry reading was at a small café, off the beaten path.

 

And, according to Spike anyway, it was rather close to several vampire hangouts.

 

In the few weeks since Tara had run into him at the grocery store, Spike had become a regular guest. If she didn’t miss her guess, Spike was trying to distract himself—probably the same way she was trying to distract herself.

 

As far as a diversion went, Spike’s company was as effective as anything else Tara had tried.

 

In fact, consoling Spike after Buffy had broken things off with him for good had occupied quite a bit of her time and energy. Tara couldn’t really begrudge him the time.

 

Tara was finding Spike’s company quite pleasant, even when he was acting like a sulky boy.

 

Maybe it was because Spike, unlike Willow, was just so transparent. Once he let his guard down with a person, reading him was like reading a book. There was very little deception in his manner—at least, there wasn’t much around her, and Tara could appreciate that.

 

Spike maintained his silence, and Tara rolled her eyes. “Spike…”

 

He glanced over at her and finally shrugged. “I don’t hate poetry.”

 

“You’re acting like it,” Tara pointed out.

 

“Doesn’t bring back good memories, that’s all.” The growl in his tone told Tara that she wasn’t going to get anything more out of him at the moment. Later, if he was in the mood, Spike might tell her what was bothering him. Or he might come back a few days from now acting like he’d never been in a bad mood. It was hard to tell with Spike.

 

“You don’t have to do anything,” she assured him. “We’re just going to listen.”

 

“You don’t have to read anything?” Spike asked, sounding curious for the first time.

 

Tara shook her head. “No. The professor encouraged us to read one of our poems before the end of the semester, but it’s not a requirement.”

 

“You gonna do it?”

 

“I don’t know,” Tara said, her voice showing her reluctance. “My poetry…”

 

Her poetry revealed more about her than she would have liked it to, if she were going to be honest. The only thing that had kept her from running was the professor’s promise that the portfolio they had to prepare would be seen by her only, and the assurance that she’d seen it all before.

 

Tara was inclined to believe her. The woman had an aura of calm and integrity, and Tara trusted her instincts. Still, it was one thing to show her professor poetry that laid bare her soul, it was something else to get up in front of a crowd—albeit a small one—and do it.

 

“Bares your soul, does it?” Spike asked, somehow reading her mind. “It’s hard to do.”

 

“Try impossible,” she corrected him. “Not like that.”

 

Tara decided not to question the fact that Spike seemed to understand exactly what she meant without her speaking the words. Spike understood a lot it seemed. Certainly more than she’d ever given him credit for.

 

Tara suddenly realized that they were in front of the café. She’d been completely relaxed during the course of their walk, trusting that Spike would sense any coming danger. She hadn’t been this relaxed after dark in ages. Tara touched Spike on the arm, causing him to pause just as he started to open the door for her. “Thank you, Spike.”

 

“For what?” he asked, his surprise evident.

 

She smiled. “For coming with me tonight.”

 

Spike shifted uncomfortably, pulling open the door to cover his own confusion. “Couldn’t let you risk getting hurt.”

 

Tara left it at that before she embarrassed him any more than she had already. Funny how violence didn’t cause Spike to bat an eye, when gratitude sent him into a tailspin.

 

~~~~~

 

Spike shuffled his feet, waiting for the girl behind the counter to finish making their drinks. He wasn’t sure just what had caused him to ask Tara if she wanted anything to drink, much less to offer to pay for it. It wasn’t like this was a date.

 

Of course, as far as Spike knew, it was commonplace for friends to buy each other drinks, just like it was completely normal for a man to accompany a female friend when she had an errand to run after dark.

 

Just because Buffy hadn’t wanted his company didn’t mean that Tara felt the same way.

 

Spike quickly pushed that thought to the back of his mind. Buffy had broken up with him a couple of weeks ago—after completely destroying the lower level of his crypt—and so far he’d managed to distract himself admirably. He only thought about her once every hour, rather than every minute.

 

He definitely considered that an improvement.

 

It was better when he was with Tara. She was sharp, and Spike was typically forced to focus on their conversations. Besides, the girl was good company, better than the other Scoobies. Ever since that night they’d run into each other in the grocery store—literally—she’d proven to be good company.

 

Spike wasn’t quite sure how it had happened, but Tara had been the one he’d gone to after Buffy had given him her little speech about how they’d both be better off apart from each other.

 

And she’d been honest. “Maybe Buffy’s right, Spike. The way things stand right now, you guys really aren’t good for each other.”

 

Spike sighed. It wasn’t like he could argue with that, even though he’d wanted to.

 

He took the drinks from the girl and returned her pleasantries absentmindedly before winding his way through the tables to find Tara. “Here you are, pet.”

 

“Thank you, Spike.” Tara took the tea from him. The poetry reading hadn’t started yet, and she noticed that he was looking a little more relaxed. “So you don’t like poetry.”

 

“Never said that,” he replied. Spike took a drink of his hot chocolate and made a face. He’d never found anyone who made it like Joyce did. Still, he drank it to remember her, because he had no other way to do so.

 

Tara was watching him, and Spike shifted in his seat, refusing to meet her eyes. He’d left his duster at his crypt and had dressed up a bit, not wanting Tara to be embarrassed by his company. The duster would have provided a certain amount of armor, however, even if it were only emotional. That, and he wanted a smoke, but his lighter and cigarettes were still in his coat pocket.

 

Spike was relieved when the MC for the evening stepped up to the microphone, calling for their attention. When Tara’s attention turned back to the miniscule stage, he could sit back in his chair and watch people make fools of themselves for a change.

 

The poetry wasn’t as bad as he’d expected it to be. The poets were a mix—from the confident, who were obviously regulars, to the timid, whose first time proved to be less traumatic than they’d feared. No matter how bad the piece happened to be—or how long—there was a smattering of polite applause afterwards. Occasionally the applause was slightly more enthusiastic, but that was the only difference between the good and the bad.

 

When they finally left around midnight, Tara was the first to speak. “Was it as bad as you thought it was going to be?”

 

“No,” Spike replied. “It was—” He hesitated to say it. “—fun.”

 

A pleased smile turned up the corners of her lips. “The Big Bad likes poetry, huh?” Spike’s silence went on for so long that Tara thought perhaps she’d crossed the line. His ego seemed so fragile sometimes. “Spike…”

 

“Used to write it.”

 

That was it. Four words, and Tara knew she wasn’t going to get anymore out of him on that subject. It was a sufficient revelation that she thought she understood him just a little better than she had before. Suddenly, in her mind’s eye, she could see Spike as he must have been so long ago. The glimpses she’d caught of a sensitive, diffident young man had a context.

 

He had been a poet, and then he became a monster.

 

It made a crazy kind of sense.

 

“What kind of poetry?” Tara asked, wondering if he would keep talking or if he would clam up, afraid that he had revealed too much. It had been like this after he’d come to her when Buffy broke up with him. Spike had come very close to tears, and then he’d disappeared for the next few days. Tara had thought she wouldn’t see him again, but he came back.

 

Sometimes she wondered why. Although Tara enjoyed the company, she wasn’t sure what Spike got out of their evenings together.

 

“Bad poetry,” Spike said dryly, and there was a rueful self-deprecation in his voice that she found endearing. Then, in an even lower tone, Spike admitted, “Love poetry.”

 

Anyone else would have teased him. They would have crowed over this chink in his armor. They would have said exactly the wrong thing to send him back into his Big Bad persona. Tara knew what it was to deal with wild things.

 

Tara had learned the secret of taming the wild cat that Spike so often reminded her of.

 

So she simply tucked her hand through his arm and said, “Maybe I’ll show you some of the poems I’ve written someday.”

 

Spike just stared at her, surprise writ clear on his expressive face, and then he smiled at her, an expression at once so sweet and wistful that Tara immediately knew she’d said exactly the right thing. “Yeah, that would be alright.” He paused. “You ever decide you want to get up on that stage, I’ll be in the audience, Glinda.”

 

Tara knew from experience that Spike could be counted on to keep his promises. “Then maybe I will.”

 

Maybe they’d both be able to take their armor off someday.


End file.
